Carry Me Home
by Chibi StarLyte
Summary: Five times Sherlock planned for John to carry him, and one time he didn't need to. Fill for the Sherlock kink meme.


This is a fill for the following prompt on the kink meme:

**One day Sherlock gets injured (breaks his leg/dislocates his bones/sprains his ankle, or anything like that) and John has to carry him home in his arms. Bridal style. Sherlock is touched; John is so strong, warm and caring. Sherlock wants more of this, so...**

**Five times Sherlock feigns an injury (or even fainting fits) so that John will have to carry him in his arms, and one time John does it just because he wants to, when he carries Sherlock to his bedroom to have sex. And maybe +1 more if John picks Sherlock up like that after their wedding to carry him over the threshold of their flat.**

**If there's sex, only top!John, please.**

It sort of derailed from "Sherlock fakes things" to "Sherlock is purposely an idiot" but there you have it.

Not beta'd or Brit-picked, because my friends are super busy at the moment. XD Please feel free to point out any mistakes.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>0.<p>

It all happened so fast. One minute, Sherlock was hot on the tail of his latest criminal. Next, he was lying on the ground, half in a puddle, and he couldn't breathe for the piercing pain in his foot.

Not good.

The detective grunted as he tried to right himself, gingerly pushing up off the pavement. His shoulder ached where it connected with the concrete, but that was the least of his concerns. The slightest movement of his foot had him hissing and stilled his movements indefinitely. Somehow, he'd landed on his foot wrong, and here he was incapacitated in the middle of some bloody alleyway while his criminal got away. Perfect.

"Sherlock!" he heard a familiar voice in the distance. A moment later, Sherlock spotted John's silhouette paused at the entrance to the alley, blurred by the rain.

"Down here!" Sherlock called out.

John's footsteps echoed off the wet pavement as he ran, skidding to a stop when he reached his friend. He knelt down, eyeing Sherlock critically.

"My foot," Sherlock answered the silent question, gesturing to the injured appendage. His breath hitched when John gave it an experimental prod and tug.

"We'll have to get you to the ambulance, at least. I can better examine you there," John said. He snaked his arm around Sherlock's back until he found a good grip beneath his armpit. His other arm crept under Sherlock's knees.

"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock asked incredulously, instinctually tensing up.

John gave him a wry smile. "You can't very well walk on your foot, can you?" And that was all the answer he offered before he hefted the detective into his arms—and no, Sherlock did _not_ yelp when he was lifted into the air, thank you very much. John held Sherlock tight to his chest as he himself rose to his feet.

Sherlock's mind went blissfully blank for a moment, all his senses fine-tuned to his flatmate—the hidden strength in those arms that held him steady, the warmth emanating from his smaller form despite the chill and drizzle around them, the faint musky scent mixed with sweat and laundry soap that Sherlock smelled when he tucked his head into John's neck. He was borderline delirious at this point—perhaps from the pain, he reasoned. But he couldn't stop himself curling into John, seeking his warmth and comfort. He felt John's hold on him tighten, and _yes_, this was right. So very right. Sherlock was safe and protected in John's arms.

They reached the ambulance far too soon for Sherlock's liking. John deposited him on the back bumper to have a proper look at his injury—yes, definitely a sprain—and though it was nice having John's careful, caring hands on him, seeing to his foot, it paled in comparison to actually being held in his arms.

Thus began Sherlock's mission to have John carry him more often, no matter what.

* * *

><p>1.<p>

It was a good month or so before Sherlock elected to put his plan into action. He had to bide his time a bit, or else John might suspect something amiss. While coming up with ideas to ensure his plan worked, he came to two conclusions.

One: He couldn't feign illness an injury. John, being a doctor, would be able to see through any sort of ruse in seconds flat.

Two: Because of number one, he had to make sure that, in legitimately bringing himself to harm so as to be carried by John, he didn't put himself in too much danger. It certainly wouldn't do if Sherlock caused himself long-term or permanent problems.

So, naturally, Sherlock stopped eating three days ago.

Granted, going long stretches without any kind of proper nourishment wasn't exactly out of the ordinary for him, especially when he was on a case. But even then, he knew his limits. If he felt faint, he'd eat a little something to get his blood sugar up, and that would be that. This time, though, he vowed to do no such thing. If he was going to get John to carry him again, he'd have to pull out all the stops.

Sherlock resolutely ignored the slight tremor in his hands as he handled his pocket magnifying lens. He slid it open and gazed through the glass at blood stains on the carpet. After a couple seconds his vision blurred, grew fuzzier than the plush fibers of the carpet. He blinked furiously to right his sight, but his usual razor-sharp focus eluded him. His head swam, clouds rolling in and obscuring his thoughts and sense of awareness. He felt sick.

"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded tentatively from behind him. "You okay?"

Giving a noncommittal hum in response, Sherlock snapped his lens shut and stood up.

Which was a terrible idea.

The second he got to his feet, the room tilted sideways. His entire world went black for a few moments and he could feel himself falling. He vaguely registered a pair of arms around him, a hand gently brushing over his forehead, cupping his cheek.

Slowly but surely, everything started coming back into focus. Light flooded back into his vision, illuminating the darkness that still lingered at the corners of his sight. There was something warm against his back—rather, he was slumped against something that radiated the most wonderful heat. He let out an undignified groan when he fully opened his eyes, trying his best to focus on the worried face of his flatmate staring down at him.

The expression of worry soon melted into something resembling relief. John brushed a few wayward curls out of Sherlock's face and gave the barest hint of a smile. "You scared me there for a minute," he said.

"I'm fine, John. Stop fretting," Sherlock argued, though considering how shaky his voice sounded, it wasn't a very solid argument. He briefly thought about batting John's hand away from his face, but decided that he liked the feeling of John's fingers resting against his cheek.

"Sure you are," John snarked right back. "When was the last time you ate something?"

"Three days ago."

John's face fell, and he let out a long-suffering sigh. Without any kind of warning, he pulled Sherlock flush against his chest and picked him up with ease, his arms securely hooked beneath Sherlock's armpit and knees.

And of course, Lestrade decided that now was a perfect time to reenter the crime scene.

"So, Sherlock, what do you thi—er, what's going on here?" Lestrade asked, giving both John and Sherlock curious looks.

"Sherlock's being an idiot," John replied easily, ignoring the small indignant sound Sherlock made in protest. "He hasn't eaten for three days; I'd like to remedy that."

At the disapproving glance Lestrade shot his way, Sherlock just pouted and curled further into John's arms.

"I have some cereal bars in the cruiser. Will that help?"

"Definitely so."

John followed the detective inspector out of the victim's home and to the police car to procure said cereal bars. Sherlock allowed his eyes to slide shut for the few precious minutes he had to spend in John's arms, reveling in the almost overwhelming feeling of home that his doctor emanated so effortlessly. He could certainly get used to this.

* * *

><p>2.<p>

Ever since Sherlock's purposeful starvation stunt, John had ensured that Sherlock ate regularly (even if it was just a snack here and there, rather than a full meal). Sherlock put up a bit of a fight at first, but gave in reluctantly—after all, it was sort of nice to have John fretting over him. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone, least of all himself.

So here he was, in the kitchen making toast for both himself and John ("Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Sherlock."). His mouth was in full pout mode as he slathered a slice with strawberry jam. How John could stand the stuff, Sherlock would never know. Oh, and there was a jam stain on his dressing gown now. Perfect. With a huff, he aggressively twisted the lid back on the jar.

And suddenly, he had an idea.

Grey eyes looked thoughtfully down at the jar he shifted about in his hands, testing the weight. His gaze then shifted down to his bare feet. He wiggled his long toes a bit, a slow smile creeping onto his face.

A couple broken toes never hurt anyone, right? Well, metaphorically speaking, anyway. Breaking any bone would, in fact, hurt. But broken toes were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sherlock took a small step back from the counter and held the jar over his foot.

Then he dropped it.

Only, it didn't land on his toes, but on the top of his foot.

The second Sherlock let out a short cry of pain, John was out of his armchair and in the kitchen, his dressing gown swooshing dramatically behind him. "What happened?"

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, lifting his injured foot a bit to get the weight off of it. He wasn't about to cry or anything, but that bloody well _hurt_. He hadn't felt anything crack, but it was already starting to swell and some discoloration could be seen right below the skin. That was certainly going to leave a lovely bruise.

Remembering that it was probably a good idea to answer John, Sherlock gave a cryptic, "Your jam," reply and nodded toward the jar rolling across the floor. Miraculously, the jar itself remained intact.

"Here, let's get you to your chair so I can look at your foot," John offered, closing the distance between them and slinging Sherlock's arm around his own shoulders. "Can you walk on it?"

Sherlock silently shook his head, pressing himself closer to John. Hopefully his flatmate wouldn't notice too much.

Just as effortlessly as the first two times, John lifted Sherlock into his arms and carried him the short distance to the living room. Once Sherlock was seated in his chair, John knelt down before him and took his foot in his gentle hands. Sherlock hissed now and again as John prodded the injury, trying to determine the extent of the damage.

When John released his foot several minutes later, Sherlock found himself immediately missing the contact.

"We'll have to ice and elevate it. I don't think it's broken, but we'll keep an eye on it," John informed Sherlock with a smile. "You should be more careful."

If only that were the first time John had told Sherlock that. Sherlock just gave a noncommittal shrug. "Being careful is boring."

At that, John barked out a laugh. He gave Sherlock a pat on the knee before standing and making his way to the kitchen for an ice pack.

If recklessness brought about this kind of attention from John that Sherlock sometimes desperately craved, then being careful was oh so boring, indeed.

* * *

><p>3.<p>

"I'm coming to the pub with you."

John's arm was halfway through the sleeve of his coat when he froze, eyeing Sherlock incredulously. "I'm sorry?" he asked, disbelief coloring his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Oh, how he loathed repeating himself. "I said, I'm coming to the pub with you."

John shook himself out of his shock and finally resumed putting his coat on. "You never come to the pub."

True, Sherlock never went out with John to the pub. Being social was definitely not his calling, especially being social with people he hated or merely tolerated, and he didn't particularly enjoy indulging in alcohol. All it did was made his brain fuzzy and his stomach sick. Where was the fun in that? He could count every single time he'd caught John stumbling home after a night out, tripping over his own feet and giggling helplessly, sometimes becoming well-acquainted with the toilet and praying to the porcelain god for a few hours. The whole scenario was distinctly unappealing to Sherlock.

But, if he played his cards right, he might just be able to get John to carry him home.

"Well, I'm coming tonight."

John looked like he was going to say something, but he stopped himself before anything could come out of his mouth. Instead, he finished putting his coat on and headed for the stairs, a faint, "Come on, then," sounding from the stairwell.

When the two of them arrived at the pub a short time later, Lestrade didn't even bother hiding his surprise.

"Sherlock?" the detective inspector exclaimed, jaw dropping to the floor and eyes practically bugging out of his head. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

Sherlock fixed Lestrade with a glare as he removed his coat and scarf, not bothering to answer such a stupid question. John pulled his coat off as well, claiming the barstool between Lestrade and his mad flatmate.

"He said he wanted to come along," John supplied with a shrug. "Wouldn't tell me why."

"Huh. All right, then," Lestrade said, tipping back his glass and downing the rest of the amber liquid inside. He leaned forward on the counter and turned his head towards Sherlock. "You sure you're not gonna be bored all evening?"

Sherlock didn't see fit to answer that question, either. He merely shook his head, his eyes darting around the pub, gathering information on all the patrons. He never grew bored of people-watching; who knew, one of them might end up being a murderer. Wouldn't that be fun?

"Ah, John! I figured you'd be showin' up soon after Greg."

Sherlock's attention immediately shifted to the bartender in front of them, a woman in her mid-forties who seemed nice enough and evidently knew both John and Lestrade from their frequent trips here.

John gave the woman a friendly smile that, for some reason, had Sherlock gritting his teeth. "Hey, Lil. Good to see you."

"The usual, then?" Lil asked.

John gave an affirmative nod and hum.

"And what'll it be for you, handsome?"

All Sherlock could do was blink dumbly at Lil for a few seconds. Oddly enough, he hadn't actually thought out this part of the plan. Now that he was faced with a decision, he had no idea what to order to drink. He cast a glance over at John, who raised a brow at him. Clearing his throat, Sherlock ground out, "What he's having." He nodded his head towards John.

"You got it," Lil said with a wink, leaving them alone to fetch their drinks.

Sherlock idly tapped his fingers on the polished countertop, simultaneously listening to the many conversations around him and eavesdropping on John and Lestrade. They didn't talk about anything of much importance—how their favourite football teams were doing currently, how things were going with the wife (badly, which Sherlock felt a little sorry for because he respected Lestrade), and if John had had much luck on the dating scene.

"Oh, you know," John said with a shrug. "Sherlock keeps me too busy to even think about dating."

And if Sherlock was feeling more than a little smug about that, he certainly didn't let it show.

Lil returned with their pints and John thanked her, returning to his conversation with Lestrade. Sherlock eyed his own drink suspiciously, sniffing at the dark brew in the glass. He wrinkled his nose a bit before lifting the glass to his lips. He tilted it back to get a huge gulp—

—and spluttered as it went down. Wasn't that just the most bitter thing Sherlock had ever tasted!

How in the world did John like such a vile drink?

"All right there, mate?" Lestrade called over to him, trying not to laugh. John smiled at him, but his eyes shone with a bit of sympathy.

"Went down the wrong pipe," Sherlock lied, wiping the spittle and foam from his lips with a little paper serviette. Well, that had gone worse than expected. Still, he had almost three fourths of a pint left to down. And down it, he did, pushing through the horrid taste clinging to his taste buds as the liquid passed through his mouth.

And then he ordered another.

And another.

And another.

After that fourth pint, Sherlock was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Everything was fuzzy around the edges—his vision, his thoughts, John's hair where it stood up just slightly and caught the light just right.

_No._

None of that.

Stop thinking those things.

Apparently that thought didn't quite make it to his mouth, because Sherlock then let out a quite undignified giggle before thunking his head down on the counter.

"John," the detective slurred, lifting his hand with great effort until his fingers poked at John's temple. "Your…your hair…soft…"

Faintly, he heard laughter in the background. Lestrade's laughter, to be precise.

"Can't hold your liquor, can you?" the silver-haired man said between laughs.

John gave an exasperated chuckle of his own before announcing, "I'd better get him home."

The cool night air did nothing to clear Sherlock's head. If anything, this whole walking business was making everything worse. He tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, but his limbs refused to obey. He stumbled more than a few times, nearly pulling John down to the concrete with him. And every time he did so, he couldn't help but laugh. Because it was funny, really. He didn't know why it was funny, but it was. Maybe John would know.

"Why…why am I laughing? John?" Sherlock asked, his words sticking to his tongue like paste. He tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, giggling helplessly yet again.

John just sighed. "Because you, Sherlock Holmes, are completely and utterly pissed. Come on."

And with that, Sherlock's feet left the ground entirely. They dangled freely in the air, legs bent at the knees where John had hooked his arm. He was floating, and it was wonderful. Nothing was better than being lighter than air, surrounded by the warmth and stability that was John Watson.

Sherlock, not being of sound mind by any stretch of the imagination at this point, decided it would be a good idea to nuzzle against John, running his nose along the side of his neck. "You smell nice," the detective mumbled, pausing the tip of his nose at John's pulse point. "And your…your heart is beating real…really fast."

Sherlock missed whatever John said in reply because he was already dozing off in John's arms.

* * *

><p>4.<p>

Sherlock really hadn't meant to fall asleep on the sofa.

Actually, "on" the sofa probably wasn't the correct wording, because only his legs and feet were on the sofa. The rest of him was on the floor, his torso twisted in the most awkward way possible and one arm tucked under his head while the other laid sprawled in front of him.

And this was how John found him when he puttered down the stairs the morning after their latest case, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

It always amazed John how Sherlock could fall asleep in almost any position when it suited him, especially when the detective hit a post-case crash. How long had he even been asleep like that, anyway? Did he originally nod off on the sofa and just…somehow migrate to the floor? Giving neither his first nor his last exasperated sigh, John padded into the living room on bare feet.

"Sherlock," he called out softly, nudging his flatmate in the shoulder with his toe. When there was no response, he tried again a bit louder.

That time, Sherlock let out a little groan, but otherwise didn't stir.

As much as John wanted to just leave him there and let him complain about a crick in his back and muscle stiffness later—really, it served him right if he deigned to sleep like that—he, in good conscience, couldn't just leave Sherlock on the floor. It'd be much better for him to sleep in an actual bed. So he knelt down next to his sleeping friend and eased him to a sit. Sherlock's head lolled to the side until it hit John's shoulder and stayed put, a familiar and comforting weight. It was a little difficult to manoeuvre from that point because of Sherlock's, er, difficult position, and John congratulated himself for managing to secure him in his arms without dropping him.

Wouldn't that have been a nasty way to wake up?

As if on instinct, Sherlock curled into John and wrapped his arms around his neck to burrow further into him. John had to repress a smile at the action. It was like having a big, lanky, clingy cat, he thought as he carried the sleeping detective through the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom.

John nudged the door open with his foot, keeping careful hold on Sherlock in case he lost his balance. His eyes fell on Sherlock's unmade bed and his small smile grew ever wider. The mess worked out in his favor in this instance, since now he wouldn't have to leave Sherlock asleep atop the covers.

With great care, John eased Sherlock down onto the mattress. It took a few moments and some gentle whispers to get Sherlock to loosen his surprisingly tight hold around John's neck. John pulled the sheets up around Sherlock and tucked him in, patting him lightly on the shoulder as he made to leave.

John paused.

He stood there in silence, taking in the sight of a sleeping Sherlock—now curled up on his side, clutching his pillow for dear life, light snores echoing in the quiet room.

Then, without giving it much thought, John leaned down and left a feather-light kiss on Sherlock's forehead. Just enough that his lips barely brushed the skin.

Sherlock still didn't stir, thank goodness.

And then John high-tailed it from the room, pretending as if nothing had happened at all.

* * *

><p>5.<p>

Had he been dreaming?

He was pretty sure he'd been dreaming.

Because there was no way that John would ever kiss him.

Ever.

Even if it was just a little forehead kiss.

Almost like a goodnight kiss.

Sherlock scoffed and steadfastly ignored the blush deepening across his cheeks—Sherlock Holmes did _not_ blush, thank you very much—as he carefully measured out some foul-smelling liquid in the beaker in front of him. What a ridiculous notion. Both the blushing and the kissing. As much as Sherlock craved for the latter to be true, the fact of the matter was that his feelings for John would be forever unrequited and he just had to deal with it.

That didn't make it any less aggravating of a task, though.

The urge to scream and yell and throw a very Holmesian tantrum was getting harder and harder to resist. Sherlock pursed his lips as he slid the beaker of acid aside, leaning heavily against the worktop and setting an empty test tube down with more force than necessary. He didn't have the concentration for experiments right now. It was an ideal time for a perfectly good sulk, he decided, wrapping his dressing gown around himself like a cloak in an overdramatic swish that was so typically Sherlock.

The hem of his dressing gown caught the test tube on the counter and sent it to the floor, where it shattered beautifully into tens of pieces.

And then Sherlock was stupid enough to take a step, impaling his foot on a particularly large, jagged shard.

"Bloody buggering fuck!" he cried out, the very John-like swear rolling off his tongue with startling ease. He looked down, already seeing blood dripping onto the floor.

"Sherlock, what—oh!" John practically materialized out of nowhere, and was already hoisting Sherlock up into his arms before Sherlock could blink. He didn't even have enough time to enjoy being carried, because John rush delivered him to the sofa before dashing off to fetch his first aid kit.

Sherlock was readjusting himself on the sofa, trying to will away the stinging pain in his foot, when John returned with his kit in hand. He knelt in front of Sherlock and put an old towel down on the floor before taking Sherlock's foot to examine it up close.

"What did you do this time?" he asked, the barest hint of a smile in his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jerked his leg back slightly when he felt the glass shift inside the cut. "Dropped a test tube," was all he offered by way of explanation. Then, he added as an afterthought, "Good job it was empty. I don't think Mrs. Hudson would have appreciated sulfuric acid burning a hole in her floor."

That elicited a chuckle from John, and Sherlock smiled a little as well despite himself. He hissed and bit his lip at the sharp pain in the arch of his foot. John had his foot in a vice grip with one hand to try and slow the bleeding, while he gripped a pair of tweezers in his other hand and pulled the glass shard out with a surgeon's precision.

A breath escaped Sherlock when John leaned back just a little, eyeing the piece of glass pinched in the tips of the tweezers. He then placed the shard on a corner of the towel and folded it over so as not to lose it. He set Sherlock's heel down on the floor while he fished around for something to clean up the blood still trickling down Sherlock foot.

"You should be more careful," John said out of habit. He smirked at Sherlock, wiping the wound clean with a flannel and applying medicine, causing Sherlock to gasp and curl his foot in reflex.

"Being careful is boring," Sherlock replied automatically, and it both amused and pained him that this exchange was so old hat for them. Amused because it was indicative to how close he and John were. Pained because it gave him the impression that nothing would ever move beyond this easy friendship they shared.

Again, John chuckled as he padded the cut with gauze and wrapped it securely with self-adhering tape. He locked eyes with Sherlock, gave him a small smile, and said, "You're all fixed up. Keep off of it for a few hours, all right?"

It was probably a good idea to say something, Sherlock's brain reminded him, but his mouth didn't want to work. He gave the bare minimum of a nod—just a slight incline of the chin—and stared intensely at John, gaze unwavering. He noticed John swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing a bit as he did so. The longer they kept eye contact, the more dilated John's pupils became, and Sherlock couldn't bear to look away.

Well, it was now or never.

So he surged forward, both hands coming up to cup John's face, and kissed him.

Kissing.

They were kissing.

Sherlock Holmes was kissing John Watson.

And John Watson was kissing him _back_.

The pressure of John's lips on his was more exhilarating than Sherlock ever thought it would be. His stomach was doing somersaults and his heart beat wildly against his ribcage, trying to force itself out of his chest. He gasped slightly when he felt John's tongue poking out and running along his bottom lip before delving into his warm, inviting mouth.

John pressed towards him insistently, hooking his fingers around Sherlock's wrists and pulling his hands down until each of their ten fingers were intertwined. He tilted his head a bit to deepen the kiss and Sherlock followed suit, trying to adjust himself on the sofa cushion without detaching himself from John. He slid his leg back just a bit, flattening his foot against the floor—

—and promptly let out a yelp of pain. He shot forward just enough to lose his balance, sending both him and John to the floor in a tangled mess of limbs, knocking the breath out of both of them. John landed hard on his back, cushioning Sherlock's fall.

"I told you to stay off of it," John commented wryly, words coming out in a near breathless groan.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock bit back with a grin. He leaned down and took John's lips once again, effectively silencing his doctor and swallowing any sarcastic words before they had a chance of being spoken.

* * *

><p>+1<p>

"So," John said after swallowing down the last of his falafel, "all those times you were injured, or sick, or…"

"Intoxicated?" Sherlock supplied with a grimace. The end justified the means in that instance, of course, but it wasn't one of his…favourite moments.

"…were just part of a plan to have me…carry you?" Setting his empty plate in his lap, John fixed Sherlock with an expectant stare.

The detective curled up on himself a bit, embarrassed to admit his absurd plan out loud. He set his plate on the coffee table, unable to stomach the rest of his Mediterranean meal. He half expected to be ridiculed by John, to be laughed at…_something_. Because really, it was quite the ridiculous plot. He was a grown man, for God's sake, and he'd been so childish in vying for John's affections.

But John—kind, wonderful, lovable, amazing John—just smiled and placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's knee. Shyly, Sherlock peered up at his doctor through his eyelashes.

"You could have just asked, you know."

They both dissolved into giggles at that point, and Sherlock marveled at just how easy this was. How easy it always had been, the two of them, and how easy the past few weeks could have been if he weren't trying to be so discreet about his wants. Much as he loved complicated puzzles to solve and intricate details to discover, he was immensely grateful that nearly anything concerning John was so blissfully simple.

Above all that, he loved how simple it was to just lean in and steal a kiss from his doctor's grinning lips.

It wasn't a few seconds later that Sherlock found himself in John's arms once again, being carried off to the bedroom. John's grin was entirely too feral, and Sherlock couldn't suppress the excitement tingling down his spine, pooling down south in a warm churning in his gut. Like always, John emanated the most enticing heat and Sherlock could curl up and drown in it forever.

Warmth was all he felt. The warmth of his sheets against his bare back. The warmth of John's mouth on his already heated skin. The lingering warmth from John's arms around him. The warmth of the fire in his veins that ignited his very core. His heart burned for John Watson, and John's seemed to burn equally for him.

Warmth was what he'd been yearning when he first enacted his plan, and warmth was what he found.

* * *

><p>This will be my last small project for a while. Next I'm moving on to 1) finishing my red thread fic, 2) finishing my wish!fic series, 3) starting up my Pokelock!AU. Keep your eyes open in the meantime.<p>

Until next time,  
>Chibi<p> 


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